Living by Loving
by Baka-Sensei
Summary: Ha! My little sister came up with the title. It was so dorky I couldn't resist. A series of oneshots set in the Dying by Surviving realm. You should probably read that if you're lost. PostRENT. MR
1. Dicky Birdied

WHHEEEEE! The first of the one-shots! The two I've done so far are just light-hearted Chris stories. Well, Chris is in them. Obviously.

This first one is really short, and I wrote it in between a couple chapters of DBS. It's set before Roger shows up in LA. Probably a couple months or so after Mark moved there. It was inspired by a Jimmy Carr comedy routine and too much Monty Python.

I do hope you like it. :-D

* * *

_**Dicky Birdied Right in the How's Your Father**_

**by Baka-Sensei**

Mark stifled a laugh by shoving another piece of tempura into his mouth. On some level he took note of the fact that he didn't even really need to think about using chopsticks anymore; it was almost the same as using a fork... just with a little more complicated wrist movements. But the majority of his attention was centered on the egotistical, smarmy, but ultimately lovable man sitting next to him on the couch.

Japanese take-out littered the coffee table, and as Christian talked he'd take a stab at some domburi here, maybe a little soba there, never missing a beat as he stuffed the food in his mouth and kept talking. He was like a well-oiled machine… and Mark would kill himself before he ever voiced that out loud. God only knew what innuendoes Christian would come up with.

"So, he looks _exactly_ like my step-father did in high school, even sounds like the bastard, and he was _hitting _on me!" Chris exclaimed, elegant hands moving in the air as he accentuated his point. The hand with the chopsticks in it flung a little noodle onto the coffee table. Chris glared at it, but didn't pick it up and kept going.

"I figure that it's a little too close to incest for my tastes, but still, just imagining the look on Robert's face if I brought home a gay carbon-copy of him…" he trailed off. "Okay, do I have something in my teeth? You've been staring at me like that for the past ten minutes without saying anything. That's quiet even for _you._" Mark snapped out of it, nearly choking on a bit of fried rice.

"N-Nothing… It's nothing," he stammered after swallowing. Chris just continued to stare at him. Mark sighed. "Okay, well, it's just that today Beth mentioned to me that you lived in London when you were a kid. I guess I never really noticed before, but now that she told me, I've been hearing your accent. It's just kinda… distracting, I guess." Christian looked at him quizzically.

"Accent?" he asked. "I have an accent?"

"It's very faint," Mark told him. "It's just… you're Rs are a little softer and your words just… I dunno, _flow_ a little more, I suppose."

"Oh, _that_?" Christian grinned. "Mark, honey, I don't have an accent!"

"But…"

"No, no, no," Chris cut him off. "Think about it. Who founded this country?"

"The British…" Where the hell was Chris going with this?

"So that means that a _British_ accent was the original American accent, which means that it changed over the years into your mid-western non-regional accent, which means that I don't _have_ an accent. You do."

"…What?"

"The way I talk… This is just how words sound when they're pronounced correctly. _You're_ the one who speaks with an accent." He could practically see the light-bulb go on in Mark's head.

"Christian," Mark said with a slight smirk, "has anyone ever told you that you're an arrogant ass?" Christian's grin was devilish.

"Many a time." He leaned forward into Mark's personal space. Mark blushed immediately and Chris leered at him. "Has anyone ever told _you _that accents, such as the one you have, are hot as all hell?"

Mark stared blankly at him for a long moment. Chris was so focused on his friend's face that he didn't see the hand slink behind the filmmaker and grab a throw-pillow before he was being pummeled back to his own side of the couch. With a sound that he would _never _admit was similar to a squeal, Christian fell back and Mark stuffed the pillow into his face, holding it there for a second.

"Like I said, you're an ass," he reiterated with a grin.

The sound of half-smothered British laughter was Mark's only answer.


	2. Abracadabra

Okay. I blame this one entirely on boredom and the fact that Joe (my best friend, who Christian is based off of) absolutely adores the Magic Bullet. He's scarily obsessed. Someone needs to buy him one so he'll shut up about it.

This one is set a few weeks after the end of DBS, so it's the closest to a "sequel" type thing so far. There will be more that are set after DBS and continue it. Though this is pretty pointless and silly, the next ones will be of more consequence.

Yay for infomercials.

* * *

_**Abracadabra**_

**by Baka-Sensei**

Roger sat slumped on the couch, channel surfing so quickly that anyone watching would be very glad they did not have epilepsy. He was bored. Bored was not a state which Roger enjoyed being in often. He was supposed to be grabbing life by the balls, wasn't he? Living to the fullest?

He let out a huff of breath as his eyes dropped closed. Sometimes, it was impossible to escape boredom. Actually, if he thought about it, having nothing to do like this could be kind of nice. Monotony to break up the excitement. Or something. Jesus. He was so bored he was delusional.

His head dropped to the back of the couch with a soft thump. There was absolutely nothing on TV. Just a bunch of infomercials and crappy daytime soaps. They'd just finished their latest album and had a couple days off. He was supposed to be using it to relax. It was driving him insane.

He shot up from the couch the second he heard the knock at the door. He couldn't help the slight smile at the thought that thank GOD, maybe Mark was home and they could do something more… stimulating. A hell of a lot more stimulating than watching TV. He was so excited at the prospect that he didn't even think about the fact that Mark had a key and wouldn't have knocked.

He opened the door, ready to sweep the filmmaker into his arms (and then to the couch or the bed), but froze the minute he'd had time to process the site that greeted him. His face fell.

"Oh. It's you," he stated in monotone.

"Jesus, thanks for the warm welcome," Chris snapped, his eyebrow raising. "What's got _your_ panties in a twist? And where's Mark?"

Roger walked dejectedly back to the couch, flopping down again. He'd left the door open, so Chris walked in and closed it behind him. Roger mumbled out an answer to his question.

"What was that?" Chris asked. "There's this thing called 'articulation'. You should look into it." He sat down next to Roger and smirked.

"I _said,_" Roger spoke up, "that Mark's out filming."

"Ahh, so that's why you look like someone took away your favorite toy. Because someone did."

"Mark is not my favorite toy. He's my boyfriend," Roger pouted.

"Cute," Chris cooed.

"Listen, was there a reason you came over?" Roger asked in an apathetic tone.

"Actually, I was bored."

"You don't say."

"Mmm. I finished up with the latest ultimately-annoying-yet-quite-useful-if-he-keeps-his-mouth-shut man a couple hours ago, and I figured I'd see what my two favorite New Yorkers were up to. What are you doing home, anyway? Don't you guys normally rehearse after dinner?"

"Yeah, but we have a couple days off since we just finished the latest album," Roger stated glumly.

"Well, Jesus, you're acting like it's a prison sentence."

"It wouldn't be if Mark didn't suddenly get 'inspired'," Roger complained. He knew that Mark's work was important to him. Shit, even Roger was guilty of getting into writing a song and tuning everything out. He knew it was unrealistic to think that Mark would give up his personal work in favor of entertaining one bored-as-hell, slightly grumpy rock star twenty four-seven. He couldn't help but feel slightly jealous, though.

"Awwww! That is so SWEET, Rog!" Chris exclaimed like he was talking to a puppy. "You just don't know what to do with yourself without your Marky-warky, do you?" Roger glared.

"Keep it up, and I'll kick you out so you can be bored in the hallway," he grumbled. Chris laughed.

"Fine, fine. Jeez. Spoil-sport." He grabbed the remote and picked up where Roger had left off, clicking through the channels. Roger groaned. So bored.

"I'm gonna go get something to drink. You want a beer?" he asked, standing up and walking towards the kitchen. If he had to be bored, at least he could be drunk and bored.

"Yeah, sure," Chris said, his eyes never leaving the screen.

Roger padded into the kitchen, the cold tile biting into his feet through his socks. He pushed back a shiver as the cold air washed over his forearms when he reached into the fridge and grabbed a couple beers. He kicked it closed and started walking back into the living room.

He almost dropped the damn things when Chris let out a loud squeal.

"What the hell..?" he asked, turning the corner to see Chris practically bouncing out of his seat.

"Best. Thing. EVER!" Chris exclaimed, pointing to the screen. Roger sat down and handed him a beer. Chris took it without looking.

"Uh… Chris, you're aware that's just an infomercial, right?" Roger asked. Chris turned to him, eyes wide. If Roger didn't know any better, he'd swear that was real horrified shock twisting the man's face.

"Not just _any _informercial!" Chris exclaimed. "It's the Magic Bullet!" His eyes turned back to the TV as if Roger should be ashamed of himself for even asking such a dumb question.

"Okay… and that means… _what_, exactly?" Chris let out an exasperated sigh and turned to face him again.

"Roger, with the Magic Bullet, you can do virtually any job in the kitchen all in 10 seconds or less!" he began, his hands stabbing in the air to accentuate his points. "Just three taps, and in the time it takes you to _start_ cutting onions, you can make fresh garden salsa that's perfect for dipping! You can make fresh chicken salad - from leftover chicken - in less time than it takes to toast the bread. Yet it takes up no more space on your counter than a coffee mug!" Roger blinked.

"Holy shit. Did you just quote the commercial verbatim?"

"Practically. This is the best infomercial ever. I've seen it at least ten times." Roger's eyes widened.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he asked.

"Shut up. Just watch. You can't stay immune to the charms of the Magic Bullet."

"Huh. So how many of these things do you have?"

"None. I have to budget somewhere. This got cut in favor of that new pair of shoes," Chris admitted, looking quite depressed about his terrible decision.

"I see."

They watched in silence for a while, sipping at their beers. Chris would let out little squeals occasionally, then comment, "Did you see that? It's AMAZING!" or variations on that theme.

"That actor's accent is totally fake," Roger commented. "And seriously, how can anyone be THAT happy about a kitchen appliance?" Chris scoffed.

"It's not just a _kitchen appliance. _It's the Magic Bullet."

"Yeah. I got that."

"How can you not appreciate this? I mean, Christ, it's the fucking Magic Bullet."

"Well, I generally don't get off just watching people try to scam me on a cooking show."

"Then I guess the food network is lost on you."

"When I'm not hungry, it isn't interesting, and when I am, it just depresses me."

"Be quiet. This is the best part." Roger rolled his eyes.

"Just when I thought you couldn't get any gayer…" he muttered under his breath with a smile. It turned into a grin when Chris didn't even notice, his eyes glued on the greatest wonder of modern civilization.

After ten or so minutes went by. Roger groaned.

"What?" Chris asked.

"Shit. I was just thinking that… that was actually kind of cool," he admitted, referring to how the disturbingly excited actors had just made all the food and drinks required for a party in five minutes. Chris cackled.

"I told you."

"Jesus. There's something wrong with me. I can't believe I'm finding this sort of interesting." Chris patted him consolingly on the back, eyes still not leaving the TV.

When the door opened, neither one of them looked up. Mark set his camera down, unwrapping his scarf and hanging it on the back of a chair with his coat. He walked over to them.

"Hey guys, what ya watching?" he asked.

"Shhh!" Chris and Roger hissed in unison.

"Um… okay," Mark trailed, sitting down next to Roger. The guitarist smiled and pulled Mark closer, putting his arm over the filmmaker's shoulder and turning back to the TV.

"Mark, have you ever heard of the Magic Bullet?" he asked.

"Uh…no."

"Holy shit, I can't believe you both are so ignorant of the best invention since Chippendales," Chris moaned. "What is wrong with you two?" Mark frowned and watched for a while.

"What's so great about it? It's just a kitchen appliance," he finally asked.

Roger leaned back as Chris gave an indignant huff and started extrapolating on the Magic Bullet's virtues again. Mark made a face.

"What the hell..?" he asked.

"Just go with it, Marky," Roger advised, dropping a short kiss to the filmmaker's lips.

As far as being bored went, this wasn't so bad.


End file.
